


Murder Song

by obssdfan



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Please Don't Kill Me, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 12:28:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9323573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obssdfan/pseuds/obssdfan
Summary: Long after the war against The Saviors, Daryl and Paul go on a supply run together. Things go wrong. Terribly wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what came over me. I listened to this song and I was just inspired to write this. I'm sorry if the characters are a bit OOC, I find it ridiculously hard to characterize Daryl. But hey, I tried. I really really hope at least someone enjoys this. And if you do, or if you have some constructive criticism, don't hesitate to leave a comment :D It'd bring me immense joy. 
> 
> I strongly recommend to listen to the song 'Murder Song' by AURORA (acoustic version) to fully experience what I felt when I imagined/wrote this fic. 
> 
> Lots of love!!

 

* * *

  _He holds my body in his arms_  
_He didn't mean to do no harm_  
_And he holds me tight_  
_Oh, he did it all to spare me from the awful things in life that come_  
_And he cries and cries_  
_I know he knows that he’s killing me for mercy_

* * *

 

Everything went wrong. They had found a shed in the middle of the woods and Paul had opened the door, hoping to find weapons or anything else useful. But walkers had started to pour out. After that, it was absolute chaos. Arrows flying through the sky and the air thick with the sounds of growling and gunshots. Daryl loses sight of Paul for a moment, only able to focus on killing the walkers surrounding him. 

After the last walker drops, arrow firmly planted into his forehead, Daryl looks around frantically, making sure they got every last one of them. His eyes are wild and his hands are clasping his crossbow tightly. He throws a quick glance at Paul. “You okay?”

Paul doesn’t answer, just stares down at the ground and the several corpses at his feet, his eyes are wide in shock.

Daryl lowers his crossbow and steps closer to him. “Fine don’t answer. Help me move these bodies.”

“I’m sorry…”   

“Damn right you’re sorry, could’ve gotten us both killed,” Daryl snarls back.

“I – …”

Daryl starts dragging the corpses away from the shed. “You can’t just casually open doors without being prepared you dumbass.” 

“Will you listen to me for just one second?” Paul tries to say calmly.

“Shoulda never been on this stupid run – “ 

“Daryl!” Paul suddenly exclaims. Daryl, startled, drops the corpse and looks up at him. It’s only then that he notices that Paul’s eyes have turned watery and that there’s a quiver in his voice. He's never seen him look so vulnerable and it freaks him out. There's no trace of his usual smug smile, no mischief in his eyes. He’s just standing there awkwardly. Tall posture hunched over in some type of insecurity that is unusual for the man.

Paul puts his trembling hands to his face and exhales a deep and ragged breath. “There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to say it,” and then suddenly, voice growing stronger, “I’ve been bit.” 

Quiet. Daryl opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again. He scoffs and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. He looks at Paul when he pulls down the neck of his shirt to reveal the bite mark on his shoulder, oozing blood. Then he looks away, shaking his head in disbelief. His mind starts to race, starts going over all the possible solutions. Because Paul is  _not_ going to die.

“We’ll go back to Hilltop, see if they can do anything about it,” he blurts, without thinking it through.

Paul laughs. He _fucking_ laughs, like this is all some sick joke. And for a moment, Daryl hopes it is.

“You know they can’t do anything about it. Besides, we’re days away from Hilltop, I won’t make it even if we try.”

Daryl feels like he’s been punched in the face. “Don’t say that. Don’t you fucking dare say that,” he spits and immediately regrets it. He isn’t angry at Paul. He’s angry at this messed up world that keeps taking away the people he cares about. Daryl tries to look at him, but realizes he can’t. He’s so angry and he can’t look at him. He can’t bear to see the disillusionment in his face.

“Fuck,” Daryl yells, not caring if it attracts every godforsaken walker in Virginia.

But then he sees Paul stumble back against a tree. “I think I might need to lie down a bit,” he says weakly.

Daryl is by his side in a second to support him. He guides him inside the shed, closing the door behind them.

 

* * *

 

Paul is sitting against the wall, head hanging down, while Daryl tears a piece of his shirt and wets it with some water from his water bottle. He sits down next to Paul, and dabs the wet cloth against his paling, sweaty skin. Daryl notices his hand is shaking and his breath is quick. He’s panicking, he rarely panics. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know what to do. Or maybe it’s because he knows exactly what he’ll have to do.

Suddenly Paul grabs a hold of his wrist, calming his nervous hand. For the first time Daryl is able to look into his eyes. It breaks his heart. There’s nothing there but confusion and fear. Once full of life, challenging and proud. The guy who was going to rule the world, now looking as if he was already dead.

“Talk to me,” Paul says, and now there’s something else in his eyes. Kindness.

Daryl frowns.  “About what?”

A shrug.  “Something you’ve never told me.”

Daryl hesitates for a second. “Alright… When I first met you, I thought you were a cocky son of a bitch. Callin’ yourself Jesus and what not.” 

Paul tries to muster something that resembles a smirk. But it’s wrong. It looks nothing like Paul. “I have a feeling you still do.”

Daryl snorts. “Yeah I do,” and then a bit quieter. “But you’re dying.” His stomach turns when he says it out loud.

Paul looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “No shit.”  

Daryl isn’t in control of what he’s saying anymore. “And suddenly I realize I don’t want you to die. I realize I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“Are you confessing your undying love for me, Daryl?” he chuckles, eyes hooded. He seems tired.

Daryl doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get how someone can be that close to dying and still be joking around. He also doesn’t know how to respond to that question.  

“Now you talk,” he says instead, because it’s easier.

Paul sits up straighter, staring down at his lap with a goofy smile.

“I had the stupidest crush on you ever since the first time you pointed a gun at me. Figured I might as well tell you now.”

Daryl swallows and stares at the man. He studies his face. His lips, his eyelashes, his nose. Daryl tries to make time move slower, praying that this moment would go on forever, that he could keep looking at Paul's face, memorize every little detail of him. This moment is so pure, so peaceful. It's something Daryl has never felt before, or at least not in a very long time. And then suddenly, he’s not in the shed anymore. He’s younger and the world is still good. He’s in a blue room and there’s a boy next to him. The biggest eyes he’s ever seen stare back at him, expecting. Kind. Soft. Safe.

So he leans in and kisses him. It’s quick and they barely touch. But nonetheless, a warm feeling spreads through his chest. He wonders why he didn’t do it sooner.

“Your timing sucks,” Paul whispers. And just like that, Daryl is back in the shed.

And then,  
  
“Give me your gun.” 

Paul’s voice is sudden, hard and cold, devoid of feeling. A sense of dread washes over Daryl. 

“What?” he asks incredulously. “Why?”

Paul frowns at him. “What do you mean why? I’m not going to turn into one of those things.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna kill yourself either,” Daryl snaps defensively.

“No? Are you going to do it for me?” the other bites back.

Daryl’s taken aback at that, but he answers honestly, even if it destroys him to say it. “If you want me to.”

Paul shakes his head. “God, sorry. I just… I don’t know how to handle this shit,” he apologizes. “I’m scared. I don’t think I'm ready to die right now.”

Daryl stares at the lost man beside him. Broken. He’d never thought something would actually break him. _His_ Paul.

“I need you to hold me, alright? I can’t do this.” He’s crying by then, a painful grimace mangles his face.

Daryl immediately goes to sit behind Paul, hugging him between his legs. His chest tightens and his throat hurts. He wishes he could take Paul’s place. He wishes he had things to say, things to soften the pain. But no, Paul is dying and Daryl can't say anything. Can't articulate the thoughts rushing through his mind. He decides to let Paul talk instead.

“Tell me something again, anything,” he says, close to Paul’s ear.

Paul sighs, barely awake, as he leans back against Daryl’s chest. But then he starts talking, and his voice is gentle and his speech slow.  

“Do not stand at my grave and weep:  
I am not there; I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow,  
I am the diamond glints on snow,  
I am the sun on ripened grain,  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circling flight.  
I am the soft starshine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry:  
I am not there; I did not die.” 

It’s chillingly silent after that. Daryl isn’t smart, at least not in an academic way. But he understands precisely what this poem is about, he feels its message ripping him apart. He hugs Paul tighter against his chest. An hour passes of them just sitting there in silence, breathing together, holding each other. Daryl wonders if Paul is asleep or not. Eventually, Paul speaks up. 

“It’s time.”   

Daryl curses under his breath. He bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to hold back a sob.  _No._

He knows he shouldn’t drag this out, for Paul’s sake. But on the other hand, he wants to drag this out as long as possible. Because he’s not ready to lose him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready.

"Not yet," Daryl begs. "Please, I... Just a little while longer." 

"I don't want to wait. I'll do it myself if you don't want to," comes the answer. Paul sounds much braver, as if he has already accepted his fate. 

Daryl strongly shakes his head, already taking his gun out of his holster. He should be the one to do it. 

“Could you count down for me, please?” Paul asks and Daryl wants to throw up.

He pulls Paul’s face closer and presses a firm, long kiss against his temple. He doesn’t even try to hold back the tears, now rolling freely down his cheeks.He places the gun where his lips had just been.   
  
_5._

“I’m so sorry, Paul,” he whimpers.  
  
_4._

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”  
  
_3._

“I’m sorry it wasn’t me.”  
  
_2._

“I’m sorry I never told you.”  
  
_1._

“I love you.” 

 

And Daryl weeps.

 

* * *

  _5, 4, 3, 2, 1_

_The gun is gone_

_And so am I_

_And here I go_  

* * *

 

Daryl manages to find a shovel in the shed and buries Paul, but not before he takes his beanie out of his pocket.

He takes the same road back, this time without Paul. It feels weird, like walking with a ghost. Sometimes Daryl turns around to say something to the man, or glances beside him to check if he’s okay, only to realize he’s gone. And he’s never coming back.  
  
Daryl is never the same again. There’s only so many people you can bear to lose.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is called "Do not stand at my grave and weep", written by Mary Elizabeth Frye. 
> 
> I always picture Jesus/Paul as a student of Literature & Art (before the apocalypse ofc), and I thought it'd be beautiful if he'd say this to Daryl. Me using a poem can also be due to the fact that I'm studying for my literature exam :p 
> 
> Anyway, thank you if you took the time to read this! :D I realize I'm not a great writer, but I just wanted to contribute to this fandom because I love it so much <3


End file.
